Worldly Romanticism
by Superkawaiifreak
Summary: It's 1776 and a storm is coming. Arthur loves Alfred more than life, but Alfred wants to declare his independence and sever all ties with England. Because there is only one way this can end. Crying over spilled milk will never do the trick. Angsty Arthur, breakup sex, M.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers.**

**AN:** Reposting this, a change of heart. I'd like to make a series of oneshots that recount historical events between the American and English nations, so consider this one the first of many. Review as you please. Historically accurate, spoken in eighteenth century prose, and full of questionable historical happenings.

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><p><strong>Act I, scene i, the curtain rises<strong>

**Perhaps **it is the soft spray of the sea misting over my skin that is causing these problematic thoughts, yet I still cannot help but ponder the tantalizing feel of America's fingertips on my cheek. I imagine that his hands would be lightly calloused, for he is only a young man who became a territory not long ago, but his ambition has made him already a strong and gentlemanly nation-state. He has become a fine young man. Truly—I could not be more proud of my blossoming Colonial America, my young colony that has won many a battle over the savage men of his Northern Continental territory without my aid. I look forward to the great colony he can become under my rule… yet I must admit that his tendency to make the blood pool in my cheeks may cause the process of his growth as a nation to slow, as I will find it difficult to ignore his completely childish gestures that will inevitably plague my operations of strengthening his colonies.

They would go well together, my pale green eyes and America's vivid blue orbs, I think.

America…

"Excuse me, Sir Britain?" The skipper's baritone voice addressed me.

"Y-yes?" I stutter, my face warming with a tinge of red, as I am nearly caught in my reverie of the young America.

"We will be arriving in the Massachusetts seaport momentarily, Sir. I have arranged for the seamen to carry your luggage down to the dock. It is within my knowledge that America, himself, will greet you and provide for the transportation of your belongings to your quarters. That is all, Sir Britain." With a nod, the skipper then walked off, presumably to find his anchormen. I could not help but notice that he placed such an emphasis on America being the one to greet me; it would only fit logically for him, the supreme overseer of this land, to accompany me, Britain, as I arrive at my colonies and his homeland.

**Certainly**, his hands were not the slightest bit calloused, I observed, as I stretched my arm out to formally greet my fellow Englishmen. Apprehending an unreciprocated handshake from America, he swiftly pulled my hand into his strong frame as he gave me a "welcome to the land of beaver pellets and free seas" hug—a uniquely American and warming gesture that I secretly adored, for I could never initiate such an intimacy.

Straightening my shirt collar, I began, "Hello, America. How have you been doing, lately?" I asked, noting the yellowness of America's blonde hair.

"Hey, Britain! Everything here has been bustling like usual. People exporting like crazy, a few angry Indians-"

"You mean Native Americans, America."

"-yeah, Native Americans, they've been a little angry at me lately, but for the most part all is well." His azure eyes flicked over to my own, "All the more better now that you're here to keep me company for the next few weeks!" America's boyish charm was evident as he pulled me into another one of those affectionate Yankee embraces as we strolled through the streets of Massachusetts, where numerous women giggled at his cliché jokes, merchants greeted him happily, even common house pets appeared to delight in his presence. I allowed America to somewhat awkwardly wrap his arm around my shoulder farthest from him, his own shoulder providing my back with support. We continued walking in a shallow delight of seeing one another; him, for being able to spend some quality time with his Motherland Country and to learn more tricks of mine for his Yankee Ingenuity; myself, for having the ability to actively test the validity of my assumptions regarding his hands… But where would the validity of _my_ testing be, as I am a centuries old nation, yet only a twenty-five year old man who lost his morals that dictate the right from wrong, the land from sea—the callused from uncallused, the fake behind the fear.

**Scene ii, the stamp act**

**Obviously, **these books that America stores in his grand library are worn and written by authors who have yet to read _Arabian Nights_ or other equally magnificent works that were rediscovered in the 1400s Renaissance of Europe. Not that America would concern himself with such irrelevant affairs; he has a Godforsaken collection of colonies that are in desperate need of effective governance. They truly have been petty these last few years, I must admit, especially that bloody Massachusetts Bay Colony. I will have to speak to King George III about fastening our hold on that colony; I sense that it is getting too autonomous for its own good. Too self-sufficient, that is; I cannot have America becoming reliant on internal industry, as that would feed his festering feel of independence in Massachusetts.

As I continue my search for a somewhat decent novel in America's library, I begin to contemplate that slight fluttering in my body that occurred when _he_ pulled me into an affectionate embrace as I stepped foot onto Massachusetts' main pier. Perhaps the stirring is indeed more closely related to affection rather affectation… No, it simply isn't logical. I shook my head. America is just a _boy_, for God's sake… Though I do find it quite astounding that he has grown to almost my own age in the past century; how could that be possible when he is but a mere territory and I am _Britain_, the supreme power of the world with grips even on the Chinese empire? I recount the memory of America encircling my upper body with his arms, once more feeling the strong, yet repressed, pull of my body into his; is it that America has grown stronger or am I just growing weaker?

I shuffle through a stack of primitively written books. I find a book I've never read, titled _Common Sense,_ no less. Just as I prepare the slightly ragged book for inspection, I hear the familiar clap of America's boots hitting the wooden floors approaching. I swiftly discard the book, promptly turning to face America. I hear him round the corner, walking slightly faster and then

he's in front of me, gazing expectedly at me through his wire-rimmed glasses he uses strictly to read documents with small text, and then I find myself with that emptiness eating away at the inside of my stomach, gnawing on my insides; it's a light feeling, soft and smooth and everything good, then America proceeds to walk too close to my proximity to be considered friendly and he

notices. That damn pamphlet, he artfully snatches the flimsy thing I carelessly threw to the floor, quickly stuffing it into his inside shirt pocket, his golden hands searching for any loose papers that might have fallen from the spine. I about-face to make eye contact with him, and it was quite a curious thing, for I saw that look of foreboding swimming in America's then-grave eyes; a rare treat, I perceived it, as it was extremely difficult to extract that look of solemnity from America.

"Did you read that?" He asks, pointing to shirt pocket, his lips pursed in a tight pink line.

Puzzled, "Not by any means, love." I say, wondering with a furious curiosity as to why his eyes aren't communicating with my own. This is strange. I have never encountered this before.

"Hmm," he sighs, "alright, then." A visible change in his bodily construction runs down his spine, he bows his head down to face the ground. Those hands return to their usual softness and even his colonial attire seems to relax. Quickly, he peers at me through those long, golden eyelashes, as if waiting for an affirmation, then as quickly as it happened he kicks his leg in front of him and begins striding out of the library, and then I act without fully thinking out the consequences of my actions.

"America," I whisper, a shadow from my lips, as I clasp onto his right hand with my left. Desperately I look to him for an answer, to what I'm not quite sure, and I can feel the strange emotions pouring from my eyes into his eyes. Blindly I look at him and then I feel the responsive squeeze of his hand; I hear his boots tap the ground, louder now, and then I feel something smooth brush over my forehead. A strong scent of the spray of the ocean and tobacco infiltrates my nostrils, and I listen to the ruffle of America's clothing as he says to me, in a barely-audible voice, "Oh, England." Then before he pulls away I realize that his militant lips had just laid claim to my forehead, and then the mixed smell of cigarettes and water is replaced with the stale stench of crinkled yellow pages and the authoritative clicks of his heels sound farther and farther away.

And I'm left in the now-darkened and Godforsaken library. Oh, God, he knows, he knows. He knows what I myself don't even know, and it was right then and there that I felt the earth shake, and I can only conclude that the ground shook in response to an inner American upheaval that I had inadvertently given rise to.

How could he know? I keel over. He's only a boy—but, oh my God, he already has the scent of a young man, and a fine one at that, and _he knows._

**Act II, scene i, the solitary tea party**

As I walk along the flagstone porch of some frivolous Massachusetts shop, I can't help but wonder why America had walked into the library in the first place. My finding of that insignificant pamphlet was only a coincidence; there had to be a real underlying reason as to why he went there.

I feel the desire to ask him rather than just play psychological games with myself, but then I nearly choke as I realize that I even have to contemplate whether or not I have the confidence to question _my_ young territory's doings.

Then I feel the gravity of the event in the library, my forehead-I stumble a bit on the Massachusetts street—and I conclude that speaking to America could end in personal plight… Hell, I will not even attempt to deny my unchristian feelings for him: his wire-rimmed glasses needed to be cleaned, his left cuff link was slightly disheveled and his blonde hair suffered from cowlicks that could have easily been tamed by a wooden comb. But besides his obvious American outlandishness, I cannot help but gravitate towards the intrinsic feeling that dictates my actions around America, for America… These feelings of mine have most likely been suppressed because America _is_ another man, and also because the trust between us has been carefully sculpted throughout the years since Jamestown of Virginia to now, 1775. Yet it is this mutual loyalty and dependability that has fostered my undeniable attraction to him, not only suppressed them. From his early days as a young ruffian, performing back-breaking labor in the Chesapeake Bay in the 1600s to now, a sophisticated albeit arrogant young man who can somewhat reasonably control his territory—I have, indeed, surrendered my feelings unto him.

**Absolutely**, it terrifies me more than the possibility of a foreign invasion.

A wooden door across the street slams open, and I see a middle-aged colonist looking about the street in a paranoid fear. His eyes dart to mine; the other colonists walking along the street, too, look to the man. Like a sewer rat, he scurries over to me, his dirty hands trembling.

"Have you heard?" He questions intensely. I narrow my eyes, leaning away from the disheveled man.

"To what are you referring?" I retort.

The man rudely rolls his eyes, and promptly latches on to the nearest Massachusetts inhabitant. A housewife. She looks somewhat startled; his grimy hands smearing dirt across her delicate pink dress sleeve.

"My good lady—it's that –it's that damn empire!" He shouts angrily. All eyes are on him. "That damn empire across the sea! It's been cajoling our governments into paying these outlandish taxes, and to what avail, might I ask?" He bellowed. With this, the colonists started nodding in agreement, some growing a deep passionate look in their eyes. It seemed as if I were the only person to not have a clue as to what he was speaking in protest of.

"That damned country, with their snobbish Englishmen and despotic king, is wreaking havoc on our nation!" The man yelled. His fellow colonists shouted in approval, some even ringing those primitive cowbells to emphasize his point. Despite the noise from the crowd of people, I heard nothing but that man's statement. My body prickled; I felt my military strength return to my backbone as I stood above the people, feeling that addicting red hot anger course through my blood. America is not a nation. I am not a damned country. My king is supreme. Flexing my jaw, I steadily began marching to America's mansion. His people are starting to show the earliest signs of revolt. America's own emotions engender his inhabitants' emotions. It seems as though someone needs to be reminded who the ruler is, and who the subservient dog is… _America._

**Scene ii, the intolerable axe**

"Do you have something you would like to discuss with me, America?"

Lazily peering up at me through his spectacles, he arched his eyebrows and straightened his back. "No. Why?" He asked.

Forcing myself not to snicker, "It has come to _my_ attention that a few colonists have been acting up. It's only common sense for me to assume that it is you who is the root of all things malfunctioning in my colonial territory." I spit.

America's eyes flashed with alarm; something I said had spurred his interest. His strong frame suddenly turned menacing as he stood quickly, scraping his chair across the wooden floorboards.

America ran his large hands through his sandy hair, plucking his glasses from his strong nose, sighing. "England." That tone. I nearly fell down as my leg gave out; I looked to the ground, avoiding his condescending glare because, oh my God, he knew and I was too presumptuous and did not think through the consequences of my actions.

"England," he breathed, "I think it would be in the best of our interests if we conducted this business trip individually from here on out," America stated, his orbs now solemn and free of his usual playfulness. God, I have never been looked upon with such demeaning eyes.

"America, I'm afraid I don't understand,"

"You do. It's common sense, is it not?" He then stepped closer to me; I held my ground, but I could feel the heat radiating from his body. I could smell traces of cigarette smoke. His crystal blue eyes peered into mine, all remnants of idolization of myself gone, now replaced with a look of tiredness, of quiet understanding.

Then he left.

I left, too. I steadily carried myself to my chambers that America had provided for me in his extravagant mansion, trying to quell the vile uprising that threatened to spill from my throat. My body began to sweat profusely; it was excruciatingly hot; the heat traveled everywhere up and down my frame, most especially my face.

Later that evening, I had taken America's proposal of conducting business separately into consideration. I unveiled my prized quill and its quality black ink. It was then that I wrote the law that would condemn any young rebels that threatened the balance of my territory, such as that filthy man outside on Massachusetts' streets. The proceeding day, I presented this parchment to my fellow English governor who traveled regularly with me; he immediately approved of it. Once more, I felt the imbalance of America increase, as there was an especially harsh thunderstorm that night. Although America preferred to express his anger to the face of the earth, I preferred to let my tears slip in solitude. While I had given the name of the laws the Coercive Acts, America had deemed them to be the Intolerable Acts—and I could not have agreed more.

**Act III, this hurts**

My Coercive Acts seem to have weighed heavily on America. He hasn't spoken to me since he told me to finish the remainder of my business here away from him. In observance of this suggestion, I distanced myself from America, which proved to be impossible, for as long as I was even in my colony, I could never truly "leave" America. I ultimately ventured out to walk along his Massachusetts pier. I found a soothing quality in the sea, the salty air reminding me of my glorious piratical days, especially of my pride when I aided Sir Francis Drake in defeating the Spanish Armada. It also reminded me of the boy, America, himself.

It stuck a chord, I must admit, when America so openly resented my feelings for him. Humiliating, actually. That boy doesn't have the slightest idea as to how much effort it required of my mental strength to go about squeezing his hand—none at all. Worst yet, he could not care less. How could America's eyes have altered so dramatically in the timespan of just only one year—as that was my last visit to my territory—how could he enact such grievances upon myself?

These feelings, these so atrociously unchristian feelings of mine, required so much effort for me to truly realize that _yes_, I do love America so very much, and now that he has rejected me, then it feels as if I am without a place to find religious quietude in, for I've admitted my feelings that do go against the Anglican Church. I had hoped that his reciprocating would ease my transgression in my strict Protestant religion. But America rejected them. I smirk because of all things evil.

And then as if to taunt me, I see America standing on one of the many piers in Massachusetts. My **first** reaction was to stray from his path, though I did feel a soft yearning to walk behind him and lace my fingers into his own. Yet I paced away from the seacoast, walking to the inland streets. These streets seem to be rougher than usual.

"Watch where you're walking!" An angry colonial harshly shouldered me. Baffled, I glanced behind me. The man's uneven steps made him appear violent, possibly from a past battle. Thoughts careening, I looked all around me: the streets were dirty with colonial goods, a few children were crying, and the colonists appeared to be

smoldering. As if they all shared a common secret. Their faces wore the same expression of amusement, a devious glint dancing in their eyes. Church bells tolled behind me.

"Hey, Britain!" America shouted.

What the bloody hell is going on?

"Britain!" He called once more. I respectively turned to face him.

"Yes, America?" Upon seeing me, America paused for a moment, then roughly grabbed my arm and pulled me into one of the street shops while yelling at the customers in the store to leave—they swiftly exited.

"Let go of me, you twit!" I ordered. Once he had successfully dragged my body into the store and dramatically shut the door, his apprehensive eyes at last acknowledged mine. I could tell that he was nervous for whatever reason, as a layer of sweat coated his neck, and he childishly pulled on the collar of his starched white shirt.

"Britain—England," He uttered in that endearing tone, but I stood strongly. "There is—there is no easy way to tell you this." For the umpteenth time in my life, I saw black and I knew what he was about to reveal to me because of all my former beautiful colonies that I had governed and fostered, I had spotted a pattern of rebellion—but America was different; he couldn't be about to emit those words; he was so much more different than anyone else, and if he

"England, I've decided to become my own country." America must have seen my look of loss, for he suddenly stood taller and narrowed his gorgeous eyes at me, crossing his arms as if to protect that putrid heart behind his breastplate. A silence engulfed us; no matter how many times this had happened to me, these confessions never became any easier for my rugged soul to handle, and I wasn't sure if I would speak or scream had I decided to protest this act.

"A—America," I could feel my nostrils flare, my eyes morph into the sea. "What, my dear boy, brought this on—and so suddenly?" My voice faltered as I lifted my hand in the air helplessly.

America gazed gravely into my being, smiling humorlessly. "You know why, England." He concluded in a ribbon-like voice, gently untying all past allegiances between he and I. He walked closer to me, his heavy boots trailing dirt on the wood, smiled diplomatically at me, and then placed a pamphlet in my hand.

**Act IV, enough**

"What is it then, America?" I ask fiercely as I force my lips onto his. He's already pushed up against the wall, his glasses dancing on the edge of his nose as I run my fingers down his soft cheeks. I feel his moist lips beneath mine, a slight pulse running through them. His clammy hands latched onto my neck, lightly massaging my tired muscles as his passionate lips explored my mouth.

Briefly he pulls his lips from mine, "Britain—I—I just—I just _have to_." He claims in a lost voice, running his hands down my back, rubbing the curve of my spine. Not entirely angry but not rightly disappointed with his response, I latch onto his strong jawline, laying my lips on every inch of his sweaty skin. America is mine, I remind myself; Europe and the rest of those bloody monarchs will never lay on a hand on him—not ever. I moaned into the kiss, feeling America's powerful hands make their way down my back. I feel the prickling sensation of the weather irritate my skin; the weather is a bit chilly, thank God America closed his window; the heavy clouds in the sky cast a slightly darkened shadow through the white-curtained windows, making it all the more difficult to see America's light blue eyes. Suddenly I feel a slight pressure on my lower back and then America's lips trap my own and he's pushing me back—yet I could not care in the slightest because all I had been wanting for this past century was for America to do just this. He asserted his strong body over mine, cascading the two of us onto his especially-buoyant bed, placing his elbows on either side of my body.

Then America begins kissing me deeply, moaning, enveloping my every emotion with his full pink lips, and I can taste all of those familiarities: tobacco, salt, lust and sadness and the bloody ocean. I picture the first time America and I set sail together to traverse the Atlantic Ocean to his land in 1606, and then I start to weep. The warm streams trickled from my eyes, wetting my hair, and the debilitating feeling of helplessness plagued me. My imagination hurt more than America's words: what had I done that did not suit America's needs? Certainly, I had given him everything in my power—or is it simply that my doings were just _not good enough_? With this I reached up and wrapped my arm around America's neck, raising myself up and bringing America's thick scent down to me.

"Britain… Please, don't cry." He urged me, comforting yet unsettling. Balancing on his knees, he lifts his upper body and reaches to his face, removing his small spectacles from the bridge of his nose, and to my utter surprise he throws them to his floorboards, not minding the small crash of glass on wood. With wide eyes I study his actions and then my heart pounds as I see America's hands masterfully maneuvering about his shirt collar, his button-up shirt falling slightly and then I see his beautiful silhouette traced in the light from the outside world. America leaned back down, lightly pressing his lips to mine, his eyelashes fluttering, tickling, my cheeks, his mouth smiling, all the while removing my own white shirt. And I let him.

His careful sentimentalities catch me off guard, and I feel that overwhelming urge to let my emotions leave my eyes, but instead I gently pull my lips from America's. "Just… Just answer me this, America," I say softly, "am I simply not good enough for you anymore? Have I grown too old, too demeaning, too overbearing?" I hear my voice linger in the air as America presumably contemplates my words. Avoiding eye contact with him, I shamefully looked to his white comforters adorning his large mattress.

You were never inadequate, America says. I need to become my own nation—to become a man. I can only love you, like _this_, if we're separate, and that's just the way it has to be. I'm sorry.

I tightly grip the bed sheets in both fury and sorrow, and I once again coat my face with salty tears. Sobbing, I lean up to kiss America—God I love him so impossibly much—and he coaxes me with his lips and then I feel his sweaty American chest on my own, his hands hastily removing my clothing; then as nightfall derives, I can only _feel_. I can only feel the adrenaline coursing through my body and feel America's sweaty hands run down my face; and I can hear America's own barely audible cries so then I realize that this is hurting the both of us, piercing our hearts and tearing our skin and leaving bloody stains; but without this we could never have learned what it was to truly love one another, for never knowing that _this_ beautiful night would occur on the eve of rebellion has haunted me for years, forcing me to stretch this night with America for as long as God would allow it.

**Soliloquy.**

My luggage careened into the floor of my room in this monstrous Massachusetts mansion. Oh, bloody hell, this shame is too deep. I hastily shoved open the oak doors of my spacious closet, looking for any attire I may have forgotten. Just as I reached my white-gloved hand out into the closet's abyss, I dropped my fingers, realizing there was none.

And I think it was realizing that I would cease to exist in this Godforsaken nation is what struck me down. I turned abruptly to face my queen-sized bed, my back roughly sliding down the dark panels of the closet door. Sometime soon, I hit the floor, and I simply cradled my head in my once-strong knees and cried.

** Indefinitely,** I had felt this stab of treason in my lifetime, but this wound from America had pierced so much deeper into my being than any other nation's rebellion. I had founded this territory and collaborated with the Italian Amerigo Vespucci to give America his name; under my jurisdiction did America grow into a formidable territory in under two hundred years, a feat that impressed even me. 1640 and America was a young but promising teenager; in the late 1690s he had grown to my height; come his great movement of the Enlightenment, and I began to see America as a fine young man of great intellect and exceptionally introspective eyes. That summer of 1750 I traveled across the Atlantic Ocean, and I discovered that America was a superior equestrian. That was the summer he also fell from his horse—just a teenager, only nineteen, I had to remind myself as I cared for his broken arm. Not impervious to pain (no matter how much he tried to exemplify the features of a god), America wouldn't stop crying, and in reconciliation of those unnecessary tears, I gently kissed him, pressing my lips to his forehead. He didn't cry again.

Despite actually sleeping with America, the pain of independence had still lacerated my being, and blood still oozed from my body. Despite realizing that what was lost was also gained, my feelings of foolishness managed to slice my body still, for how could I have not realized that this act of rebellion would occur in my most prized territory? Perhaps it is those memories of trust, friendship and togetherness that strike my being with the most brutish force, as I had seen America become an absolutely stunning young man in only a mere two hundred years. Although America had disregarded my political stance for him in the Old World, my tired war weariness from the Mediterranean and nearly the entire globe, and the sacrifices I made for his country, my adoration for the boy was still ever-present, if not revived.

And yet as I peer from my room out to the Massachusetts pier, ruminating of America's first great leader, John Winthrop, descend that very wooden dock in 1620, I know that I must learn to confront the emptiness of solitude and embrace the empty sea. And because of America's soft, soft hands, I know that I must additionally learn to construct a new and worldly relationship with America—after all, he will soon be liberated, showing to the world that sunny smile of confidence I helped him garner by allowing his forces to defeat my own in that fateful year of 1783. One hundred and seventy-six years and three hundred and sixty-four days later, I still ponder with extreme curiosity the gentility of your hands, America.


End file.
